Authority Must be Obeyed, or it Must be Overthrown
by ErikadeCarpentier
Summary: Years after Miriana of Mamoreal took back Wonderland, Iracebeth fought another war to take it back. Not for herself - for her children. In this, we see the effects of this war upon her beloved Cathedral, and the changed woman she has become. Reviews and reviewers are lovely!


Authority must be obeyed…

Or it must be overthrown

Nearly a century had passed since her Royal Majesty Iracebeth, Queen of Hearts and Empress of the Badlands stood in this spot. Before the great gates of what had once been the pride and joy of Her Majesty's reign; the structure that had taken ten years to build. The church which had boasted the work of the best glassmakers and carvers in all of Underland. The first offering of a New Queen to her people and to her Goddess. The great Cathedral of Salason: now crumbling in ruin.

Iracebeth stood before the wide, iron-spun gates, which were rapidly being reclaimed by vines and rocking-horse flies, as a changed woman. Had her palace, the symbol of her authority been torn down, she would have vengefully gone after the perpetrators, but the brutes her late sister had once commanded had instead taken her Cathedral. They had massacred those who took shelter inside; they had broken the only rule of warfare. Families may be separated, children killed, and forests burned. But never, never shall a holy structure be desecrated; it said so in the scriptures passed down from Amusterra herself.

The bruised, scraped, sunburnt queen passed a trembling left index finger from her navel to her right shoulder, then widow's peak, and finally her left shoulder, terrified and trembling. Perhaps the gates had only been scratched… Perhaps the structure was left untouched.

A weak hope.

Grunting with exertion, she shouldered the gate that was three times her height until the squeaky, rusted hinges finally allowed their architect inside. She nearly fell, forgetting once again how top-heavy she was, but regained her balance.

The gardens were in no better shape than the gates. Even the weeds, those intruders that the flowers worked so hard to keep out, were browned and dead, their corpses littered about the lawns which had once fostered sparkling fountains. The statues dedicated to Underland's first ten families were crumbling or entirely knocked over, seemingly by powder blasts. All separated, dissolving into dust with every breath the Queen took. She felt her watery-blue eyes tear up anxiously and she felt sick. She wanted to run away from what she saw, but knew she could not. This cathedral, as much as Adorava or Abelblaize, was one of her children. And one couldn't walk away from a dying child.

As she progressed through the elaborate system of mazes which, from an aerial perspective, appeared to be seven eyes centered around a fountain of the Great Lady herself, representing the seven things which She created herself; the trees, the mountains, the waters and oceans, the birds, the animals, the fish, and the sky which covered the cavernous world. Iracebeth found herself trotting faster and faster as she ran through the browned hedges which were nearly about to collapse, heart pounding in her ears and tiny feet thumping on the dead, barren ground. She anxiously rubbed the spaces on her fingers where her rings had once protected her – all she had now were her wedding ring and the red ring which granted her sovereignty. The two which had never betrayed her nor led her astray – on the contrary, it was she who had betrayed them.

Finally she reached the end of the maze and what she saw confirmed her worst fears. Complete, unsalvageable ruination.

The queen collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her tiny, rough, calloused hands, feeling very, very alone.

The once-great Cathedral was caving in on itself, though it had obviously had help; there were boulders everywhere, from catapults, a favorite of Miriana's army, powder marks which had probably resulted from the rebels, blade marks where chessmen had fought, and outright vandalism on her beautiful walls. Entire blocks of the black marble that had been used to construct the work lay scattered, shattered, and eroded. The once great, all seeing eyes which had been painstakingly carved to appear to be flesh-and-blood were turning to dust, as were the hearts which had once almost seemed to throb with realism. Now-dead vines crept up the columns that remained, while huge boulder-shaped holes let rain and dust through the arched ceilings, allowing mold to grow on the many books which lined the walls in the heart-shaped antechamber. The white menace might have been enough to scare her away before her exile, spores shooting out when disturbed. But the Red Queen of Hearts had hardened in her 75 years, along with the 25 years spent hard at war. She pushed forward, with an aching heart and heavy head.

The damage only got worse as she pressed further. Alters smashed, candles melted from exposure to the sun, the oppressing smell of rot, stained glass shattered on the floors, gaping holes in the once well-cared for wooden platforms, and every portrait and landscape either burned into ashes or ripped to shreds. The portrait of her and her poor Acheonickolas at their wedding, every one of their children together… All of them. It was all gone.

When the broken Queen finally reached the inner sanctum, the sun was setting. She fell to her knees in front of the looking glass, which was fragmented, yet miraculously still in its frame. Her hands shook and she shivered as though it were ten below zero. The tears which had been threatening to overcome her finally took control and she sobbed years and years of pain into her hands. Never had Iracebeth felt so alone. She hadn't a clue where her children might be; they could be dead for what she knew. She had foolishly killed her husband for a false crime. She had no friends, no allies. The war she had just won had been all due to her own work; her own desperate attempt to regain what was rightfully hers, for her children's sakes. As she stared into the broken mirror, she only saw an ugly, broken woman; she saw what everyone else had seen for many years. 

Shaking with the force of her tears, Iracebeth curled on the muddy, rotted floorboards and murmured her prayers with painful accuracy, believing it to be the last time, before she heard something strange.

A child's laughter.

This was no place for a child; if the spores didn't kill them, falling through the floorboards would. But she didn't want to be seen in such a state. Whether she liked it or not, she did wear the crown, for however fleeting a moment it might be. Slowly, still shaking, she forced herself to her full height and wiped her face best she could, smearing the makeup she still obsessively wore and attempting to wrestle her curls back into their proper places, though they seemed to prefer the braid they had been confined to for 25 years. Finally, she turned to face whatever stray orphan the war had left behind, and instead found a Caellach; that is, a soul yet to be born.

Iracebeth had of course read and been taught of such beings in the scriptures, but had never seen one for herself – nor had she expected to. This was almost too much for the queen. To see something so pure, so true, and so honest in the ruins of what had once been a holy place. She fell back down to her knees, quivering with fear; such omens were generally bad luck, but to run from such an encounter would only make it worse.

The Caellach moved closer, not walking but floating, or perhaps flying with the tiny wings on her back which shimmered and glowed, like those of a lanternfly. There was a soft smile on the child's face, as it glistened in the last few rays of the setting sun and the light it seemed to radiate on its own. She gently grasped the Queen's chin and forced the old woman to look into her blue eyes, which seemed so much like her poor Acheonickolas'.

The shade wiped the makeup, dirt, and tears from her face with one swipe of a glistening hand, and spoke with a voice that reminded one of a rushing brook.

"Do not fear me, Grandmother. I am to be Assandria, the child of your Lord son Acheonickolas and his wife, Gwenaria of the North, and I have come to deliver the words of Our Lady."

The queen stared back at her in shock, chest rising and falling slowly in turn with the constraint of a steel battle corset.

"Amusterra knows you have sinned, yet you have proven yourself worthy of her. I have been sent to reunite the North with your country." She paused to press a soft kiss to Iracebeth's sunburned forehead, which felt as though cool water had rushed over the burn and soothed the pain away. "I will know none of this when I am born into the world, and you may tell no one of this encounter."

She floated, or flew back from the bewildered queen, but turned for a brief moment with a soft smile. She whispered quietly, "You are beautiful, Grandmomma."

With that, the shimmering being seemed to turn into a sunray and split across the skies, faster than the fastest bird; perhaps even faster than light itself.

For several moments, Iracebeth knelt, back to the mirror, staring at the space the being had once occupied, rubbing her hands together before touching the spot where the girl who'd called herself Assandria kissed her; the burn was gone, and any pain with it.

Exhausted, she collapsed on the ground once more, not with sadness anymore, but fatigue. She had to meet this child; this savior the Goddess had sent for her. She would wait a few years more; perhaps ready the stage for her eldest or youngest to take over.

There was much work to do.


End file.
